


Wolf of the West Plains

by Ragnar_the_Red



Series: Heir to the Empire [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Battle, Dragonborn is a prince, The Moot, Torygg loves adminstration, emphasis on medieval
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24670828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragnar_the_Red/pseuds/Ragnar_the_Red
Summary: Prince Ellig of Skyrim proves his mettle in a battle against a roving army of orcs and Forsworn. New events transpire as a result of his victory, and the young prince is hard-pressed to toe the line between his personal desires and his morality. (Chronologically first in the Heir to the Empire series).
Series: Heir to the Empire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1783615





	Wolf of the West Plains

_The Western Plains of Skyrim, in the year 187 of the Fourth Era_

The air was filled with shouting and screams of Breton, Orc, and Nord alike. The two forces’ desperate struggle carried on throughout the day. Thousands of Orcs led by one calling himself the “Champion of Malacath” had stormed into Skyrim a few months ago. They ravaged the Reach, recruiting Forsworn to their cause. Whatever that cause was. For all Ellig knew, it was merely to rape and plunder. Any settlement taken was razed; no garrisons were ever left behind to hold the villages and towns taken.

The Orc-Forsworn army had bypassed Markarth, knowing full well they could not take it. The well-fortified and supplied city would take at least two years to starve out, especially since the Breton population would be killed or forced out to save food for the rest. Taking it by storm wouldn’t work either; they would need ladders and towers, rams and galleries. Most of which was too complex or time-consuming for what was generally just a massive raiding party. Even then, they’d lose half their men taking it, if they were lucky.

Solitude was a similar story; easily supplied by sea, narrow causeways, and a sizable garrison of legionaries to aid the High King and his soldiers. Attacking Morthal was pointless; timber and fish made poor loot, and the swamplands were an invader’s worst nightmare.

Whiterun was a juicy target, however. It was rich and central, with no geographical obstacles. It’s defenses were not as strong as those of Markarth and Solitude. Old, crumbling walls, and you could see any reinforcing army for miles, thanks to the plains surrounding the city.

So Malacath’s champion took his army there. The High King Gudmund, Ellig’s foster father, had anticipated this. He ordered the young Jarl Balgruuf to harass the Orc army with his cavalry, delaying them as long as possible. Gudmund raised his personal forces, leaving the Legion to guard Solitude. He took Ellig and Torygg with him, intent on giving the two their first taste of real battle.

Ellig was no stranger to fights. The eighteen year old had trained with the Companions every winter and spring since he was ten, and was a skilled warrior by even their standards. He was as big as Farkas, and as smart as Vilkas. His sword had tasted the blood of at least one score of bandits, half a dozen Falmer, and even a giant. An adolescent giant, but Ellig was a stripling too. That had gotten him a knighthood from Jarl Balgruuf. Not a title used often by Nords, but Imperials and Bretons loved you if you had a “Sir” before your name.

Torygg was a different story. He had never fought another person who was trying to kill him. Only reasonable, since Ellig’s foster brother had just turned fourteen a month ago. Their father assigned Torygg the duty of being Ellig’s squire. His little brother’s mother, Hjördis, had protested her son being on the front line, but Ellig managed to assuage her fears by promising to stay by Torygg, no matter what.

Gudmund brought the force of over two thousand men down through Hjaalmarch, to take the Orcs in the rear. Balgruuf engaged the orcs head on, his infantry pinning the Orcs and Forsworn down, while his cavalry pummeled them in hammer-and-anvil strikes. Even still, Balgruuf was outnumbered four to one. Forsworn shamans began to break his cavalry’s charge with magic, and the orcs’ superior numbers began to turn the tide of the infantry battle, without the support of the horse.

The Solitude forces arrived at midday, too late to have a full envelopment of the Orcish army. The Champion of Malacath was able to swivel half his force around to meet them, and the massive orc led the charge, carrying the legendary warhammer Volendrung.

Desperate hand to hand followed, and continued into the afternoon. Ellig was tired, immensely so. But adrenaline would not let him quit, not while there was still a battle to be won. He quaffed a potion of stamina, and returned to the battle.

An orc carrying an iron arming sword and buckler charged him from behind, giving away his attack with a roar. Ellig turned and crouched, flipping the orc over, so that he landed on his back. His chest exposed, Ellig brought down his Skyforge longsword through the orc’s heart.

Ellig looked around frantically, searching for Torygg. “He was right beside me!” he shouted to no one in particular. He finally spotted his brother, taking a pummeling from a pair of Forsworn with stone axes. Torygg was well armored in plate, but he would be in trouble if the Forsworn got him on the ground. Ellig picked up a fallen spear, hurling it at one of the Forsworn. 

She fell with a shriek, and he rushed the other Breton rebel. Ellig feinted high, then slashed the Forsworn deep across the stomach, disemboweling him. The Breton howled in pain, whimpering. Ellig ended the man’s suffering with a dagger through the head. The Forsworn woman writhed on the ground, still pinned by the spear. Ellig stomped on her throat, crushing her windpipe. Torygg fell to the ground, and Ellig rushed to him.

“You… you… killed them.” Torygg was shaken, disturbed by the deaths of the Forsworn. Through his visor slit, Ellig could see the fear in his little brother’s eyes. He pulled Torygg up. _No injuries, just in shock_. _He hadn’t seen anyone die before today_.

“Them or us, Torygg. Be strong. Father is watching, and so is Shor.” Torygg nodded, and Ellig led them back into the fray. He spotted their father fighting atop one of the few small hills that sporadically dotted the plains of Whiterun.

Gudmund was fighting a Briarheart and an orc at the same time. The orc was well-armored compared to the rest, who mostly went unarmored, or had simple mail shirts and leather helmets. This orc wore orcish plate, and was equipped with an orcish sword and shield. The Briarheart wielded an ebony sword in one hand, and a glass dagger in the other.

Though approaching forty, Gudmund was still nimble, even in full plate. The orc attempted a shield bash, but the king spun around the attack. He bashed the orc in the back of the head with his legendary longsword, Gudbrandur. The orc was knocked off balance, and Gudmund reached over the orc’s back to put him in a chokehold with Gudbrandur. 

The cold Skyforge steel digging into his neck, the orc dropped his own sword and shield, and attempted to wrench the sword away. He failed, and Gudmund dug it deeper, before releasing. The orc fell to the ground, choking on his blood.

The Briarheart moved forward, slashing with his ebony sword. He and Gudmund exchanged blows, swords clashing together quickly. The undead Forsworn thrusted with his dagger as well, probing at Gudmund’s face. But he could not get the dagger through the king’s visor, and the Briarheart’s overzealous attacks left him open.

Gudmund punched the undead man in the face with an armored fist, forcing the Forsworn back. Now with ample room, he stabbed the briarheart that kept the undead warrior going. With the briar destroyed, the Briarheart died as quickly as a candlelight that had been pinched out.

Ellig and Torygg joined their father, and he turned to face them. “The battle fares well thus far, boys. But it’s time we cut the head off this snake.”

“Indeed High King Gudmund,” spoke a booming, gravelly voice. The three looked to the source, and it was none other than the Champion of Malacath. The monstrous orc was seven feet tall, with change. He was bald, with a scraggly beard. The orc’s skin was a light green, which helped showcase the numerous scars on his bare chest. 

The champion bore fresh wounds as well, though Ellig wasn’t sure if he noticed. In the orc’s right hand was Volendrung, its head glowing menacingly from the enchanted gem inside of it. Two orcs in full orcish plate accompanied him, carrying long axes.

“Leave this brute to me, Ellig. You and your brother rid the world of his lackeys.” Gudmund took a defensive stance, as he and the champion circled each other.

The two brothers moved to face the Champion’s lieutenants. “Torygg, stay out of the reach of his long axe. Make him miss or hit your shield. Lunge when he tires.” Torygg gave a curt nod, and Ellig advanced on his orc target. He gave the orc no time to prepare a swing, slashing swiftly.

The orc parried his blows, and shoved him back when Ellig’s sword was briefly caught on the wooden handle of the axe. The orc then swung, catching him in the side. The blow stung, but did not pierce or break anything, thanks to his plate and the _aketon_ underneath.

The orc swung again, and Ellig dodged this time, catching the Orsimer off-balance. He targeted the orc’s fingers, which were protected only by leather. He feinted low, then high, before swinging left and right low again. The orc screamed as the sharp Skyforge steel sliced through leather, skin, and bone.

Establishing momentum, Ellig brought his sword over his head, and cut at the orc’s neck from the right. In one fell swing, he decapitated the Orsimer. The orc’s body staggered for a moment, then fell.

He looked to Torygg, who was still battling the other orc retainer. The orc was smashing his long axe into a cowering Torygg’s shield, his back to Ellig. Ellig snuck up behind the orc as he prepared an overhead swing, and grabbed just below the head of the axe.

“Now, Torygg! Kill him!” Torygg looked past his shield, and thrust his arming sword into the orc’s throat. Once the blade was retracted, the orc gurgled, blood spilling from his neck. Death soon followed.

Ellig began to congratulate Torygg, but both of their eyes were drawn to the duel between their father and the Champion. The big orc had Gudmund on the defensive, their father doing everything he could to avoid the vicious swinging of Volendrung. An opening in the orc’s pattern revealed itself, and Gudmund thrust Gudbrandur forward, attempting to pierce the orc’s unarmored chest.

But the Champion saw it coming. He nimbly pushed away Gudbrandur with the haft of Volendrung, and smashed the hammer into Gudmund, sending the king staggering. His defenses lowered for the moment, their father was completely helpless.

The Champion of Malacath swung his mighty hammer in the air, and struck Gudmund in the head, producing a sickening crunch. The king collapsed to the ground unceremoniously, motionless. Gudbrandur flew from his grasp.

Wordlessly, Ellig and Torygg charged the orc. The Champion knocked away his longsword, and kicked him to the ground. Torygg slashed the orc on the forearm, but the brute shrugged it off, smashing the boy’s shield into pieces with Volendrung.

Ellig looked to the army, and saw they had begun to panic at the death of their king. Some fled, while others resigned themselves to a journey to Sovngarde. _If I don’t kill this bastard, the battle is lost. Whiterun will be lost._ He reached for the nearest weapon, and hope reached for him in turn. _Gudbrandur_.

When he picked up the sword, he felt something change. Like another person was sharing his mind. Rage and bloodlust flowed through him, and he roared. _This Daedra worshipping filth dares to come here!? To kill my father, and murder my people?!_

The Champion stood with his back to Ellig. He was clutching Gudmund in one hand, taunting the Nords. “I’ll send you back to your master, you unholy monster. To Oblivion with you!” Ellig rushed forward, the other presence taking control. The monster dropped his father, turning to face him.

The orc swung at him with Volendrung, snarling. To both their amazement, Ellig batted the hammer away with Gudbrandur. Overcoming his own shock, he unleashed a flurry of attacks on the Champion. The orc chieftain was forced back, struggling to defend against the lightning fast attacks with his hammer. A few slashes found skin, and the brute howled with each new wound.

But Ellig knew he would tire eventually, and the orc would regain the upper hand. He had to finish this. Suddenly, he recalled a simple move Skjor had taught him. _The one that left a scar everyone would notice._

He swung overhead, then to the orc’s left. The orc blocked both attacks, but just barely. That didn’t matter to Ellig, they weren’t meant to hit. He began to swing low, at the orc’s bottom right. Just as he planned, the orc blocked low.

With a flick of his wrist, Ellig changed his low swing to a high thrust. Gudbrandur shot forward, poking out the orc’s right eye. The Champion dropped his hammer, covering the wound with both hands, screaming all the while. Ellig poked out the other eye, then stabbed the orc in the gut, pushing all the way to the crossguard. He twisted the longsword, and pushed the Champion away.

The big orc fell to his knees, and Ellig swiftly decapitated him. He lifted up the Champion’s head triumphantly, brandishing it to the Nords and Orsimer alike.

“Malacath’s puppet is dead!” he shouted, his voice booming. _This voice, it isn’t just mine_. “Rally to me, brothers! Victory, or Sovngarde!”

Ellig tossed the head into the army of Orcs. The Nords shouted a war cry, emboldened by the death of the Orc leader by the hands of their prince. Ellig pulled Torygg to his feet, and the two brothers charged, cutting into the unnerved orcs and Forsworn.

Ellig led the Solitude force, cutting and hacking their way through the Orc army to link up with Balgruuf. Gudbrandur came alive in his hands, and it crackled with electricity. It hewed through bone, mail and leather like an axe through cheese. Arms, legs, hands and heads flew. By the time he reached Balgruuf and the Whiterun force, Ellig was covered in blood and viscera. Entrails hung from his left arm, though he did not know whose, or it got there in the first place. He shook the guts off, and removed his helm.

The orcs were all dead or routed, the cowardly deserters quickly rode down by the Whiterun horse. Jarl Balgruuf approached him, the other man’s greatsword bright red with blood. The jarl was a tall man himself, five years his senior.

Balgruuf clasped Ellig’s shoulder with a grin. “Victory is ours, my prince. Those animals have been put to rout or put to the sword.”

But at what cost?” Ellig replied sorrowfully, looking at the bodies of his fallen countrymen. “Hundreds of our own dead, and my father was struck down. Skyrim is without a king.” _Now they’ll call a moot, and they’ll want to pick me over Torygg._ There would be dissent, surely. Torygg’s mother would never let Ellig be king over Torygg. She believed Ellig was a bastard, like nearly everyone else in Skyrim. Only Gudmund, the Greybeards, and the gods knew the truth.

Balgruuf removed his hand. “I’m sorry, Ellig. All we can do now is give him a hero’s funeral, and sing of his valor.” He gestured to the battlefield. “Come. Let’s get our men in order. We have many bodies to burn, and cairns to build.” The jarl turned, then did a double take at Ellig.

“What is it?” He asked the jarl. Balgruuf squinted, peering into his eyes.

“Nothing, I suppose. Though I could have sworn your eyes had turned a sort of yellowish-gold.”

_Whiterun, a week later_

Torygg and Ellig watched as their father’s body burned in the Skyforge. The ritual was usually reserved for the Harbinger of the Companions, but Kodlak Whitemane believed that Gudmund was deserving of an ancient hero’s funeral. Skjor and the Circle agreed, or at least did not object, and the High King was properly sent off to Sovngarde, carried by the fires that forged the weapons of legend.

Torygg was weeping now, and had wept when they returned to their father’s body, as had many of the men. Ellig’s heart grieved deeply as well, but he could not afford to mourn while there was work to be done. Many of the men wanted the orc champion’s head on a pike, but Ellig refused. He too hated the orc, but true Nords treated great warriors with respect, even if they were enemies. The Falmer Snow Prince had slain many Nords, but he was buried in a grand barrow regardless. The orc’s remains were buried in a large barrow, Volendrung resting beside them in a stone coffin.

The rest of the orcs were burned in mass graves; the stench was abhorrent. The Forsworn were left for the crows. The Nord dead were buried in cairns and barrows. The early spring was still cold, giving them plenty of time before the corpses began to rot. Priests of Arkay had been hard at work embalming the bodies. There were so many, the priests ran out of oil thrice.

Now the work was complete, and Ellig allowed himself to finally shed tears. “May Shor shower you with glory in the halls of Sovngarde, father. I will see you again, one day.” He put his arm around Torygg’s shoulders, and pulled him close.

After the funeral came the wake. Jorrvaskr was humming with nobles, warriors, and even a few of his teachers from the College of Winterhold. Gudmund had always spoken highly of understanding magic, and Winterhold was where Ellig spent the summers. Normally, there would be significant tension between mages and Nord warriors, but there was far too much respect for the late king for it to boil over.

Ellig sat with his Companion friends, Farkas, Vilkas, and Aela. Torygg sat with Hjördis. She had claimed she didn’t want Torygg drinking too much, though Ellig suspected she wouldn’t be comfortable with him ever out of her sight. Gudmund’s death had hit her particularly hard.

Numerous people came to him to offer their condolences. Some were sincere, and others weren’t. Balgruuf drained a cup with him, and reassured him that he would support whatever action Ellig took. Jarl Ulfric drank with him as well, but asked him to put forward a claim to the throne. “Your brother is a good lad, but young, and not half the warrior you are. Skyrim needs a strong ruler. Your rule.” Ellig told him he would think about it.

Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone offered him words of wisdom that were confusing and unclear. When Farkas admonished it as vague nonsense, the jarl responded “For those who have vague minds, perhaps.” Vilkas and Aela laughed boisterously at that.

Jarls Korir, Skald, and Dengeir counseled him to press forward a claim. Jarls Laila and Igmund counseled the opposite. The young lady Elisif was infatuated with the now-Jarl Torygg, and would no doubt take his side. At least three Jarls would stand against him, should he press a claim. All of them ruled three of Skyrim’s great cities.

General Tullius, the commander of the Imperial legions in Skyrim, counseled him to step aside, in favor of his brother. “If you are elected king, it endangers the peace between the Aldmeri Dominion and the Empire. The Thalmor will feel threatened by you, and strike preemptively.” _They wouldn’t_ , Ellig knew. The elves took longer to replenish their numbers than humans did. The Thalmor were best off biding their time, turning the remaining nations of the Empire against each other. Attacking now would only unite them. _Divide et impera_.

He knew why Tullius favored Torygg. He saw the younger, softer boy as easier to control, to mold into a puppet for the Empire. Ellig would be far more difficult to manipulate. _I’ll not let them make my brother their mouthpiece_.

“You don’t want the crown, do you?” Vilkas asked, breaking Ellig free of his thoughts. Aela and Farkas peered at him as well, awaiting his answer.

“I don’t know,” he answered, taking a long swig of his horn of mead. “The price would be high. At least three powerful Jarls would not accept my rule. And my brother would be lost to me.” _But Skyrim needs a proper ruler. Do not let the love for your brother doom Skyrim to the rule of a weak king._ “The Greybeards did tell me I have a high calling in life,” he muttered under his breath.

Ellig stood up, drinking horn in hand. He walked loudly and purposefully to the center of the mead hall. Slowly, every eye came to rest upon his figure. “Countrymen! A toast to the life of my father, and our king, who dines with Shor and Ysgramor in the mead hall of Sovngarde! Skol!”

“Skol!” came the return toast. The whole room took a drink. Ellig cast his eyes around the crowd. Ulfric’s eyes were filled with anticipation, Hjördis’s were clouded with fear. A nervous energy had entered the room, and it seized Ellig by the heart.

“With the death of my father, comes the selection of a new High King. The Moot. Many of you have come to me tonight to offer your support.” Hjördis clenched her glass tight. Ellig continued. “Others, to dissuade me from pressing forth a claim. I believe it best to get it over with now. The subject of the Moot hangs over this wake like fog over the Sea of Ghosts. I will see it dissipate.”

If someone told him a room could be more tense, Ellig would cut out their tongue, for no greater lie could be told. No matter which path he chose, there would be an uproar. He drained the rest of his horn, casting it aside, and drew Gudbrandur, brandishing it to the crowd.

“I, Ellig Gudmundsson, press forth a claim to the throne of Skyrim. The claim of my brother, Torygg Gudmundsson!” Ellig walked forward to where his brother sat, and kneeled before him, offering Gudbrandur with both hands, head hung low in deference. A cacophony traveled through the hall, and Torygg stood up, chair squeaking. Instantly, the hall was deafeningly silent.

Ellig looked up at Torygg. His younger brother slowly reached for the sword, hands shaking. Suddenly, he dropped them. “I can’t take the sword, Ellig. Keep it. You are ten times the warrior I am. But if you won’t take the crown, then I suppose I must.” He extended his right hand, and Ellig took it. Standing up, he embraced his brother, and his new king.

“What say the jarls?” Ellig half-asked, half-challenged. Balgruuf stood immediately, and walked to Torygg, an axe in hand.

“Hail High King Torygg!” The big jarl handed the axe to the youth, who accepted it gratefully. Elisif followed suit, handing Torygg an axe lent to her by Kodlak Whitemane. The young lady fluttered her eyelids at his brother, and Ellig saw his cheeks turn slightly pink.

Igmund and Laila were next, followed by Idgrod. Korir, Skald and Dengeir pledged fealty to Torygg, with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Having no choice but to accept the result, Ulfric gave his axe to the new king. The red-haired man looked at Ellig, and his eyes looked to have a million different emotions swirling inside them. The most prominent one, however, was disappointment.

_Solitude, Castle Dour, over a month later_

Torygg was crowned High King in front of a massive crowd. All the nobles of the country paid him homage, bringing tribute in the form of exquisite gifts. Outlanders came as well, bearing fine wines and spirits, gleaming arms and armor, and so much more. Lleril Morvayn of House Redoran presented Torygg with a fine set of ebonsteel plate armor. King Nkosana, one of the two kings of Hammerfell, showed up, to the shock of all. Predictably, he ignored the Imperials and Altmer present with obvious scorn, and graciously presented Torygg with an ornate enchanted scimitar. King Amalric of the Breton kingdom of Jehanna brought a hundred bottles of champagne, the peculiar wine of High Rock that sparkled and bubbled. The Thalmor Ambassador, Elenwen, gifted a beautifully illustrated worship book of the Eight Divines. Ellig could not help but roll his eyes at that one.

The Count of Cheydinhal bestowed the finest black stallion from his stables, a sleek, muscular war horse. The count urged Torygg to stud it out, and improve his own cavalry, as the horses of Cheydinhal were without compare. A claim not without merit, though Ellig was sure King Nkosana would dispute it nonetheless, had the Redguard royal stayed.

Emperor Titus was conspicuously absent. In his stead, his cousin Vittoria Vici gifted the High King with nine casks of Cyrodilic brandy, a heavy war lance, and an exquisitely made leather saddle, with stirrups made of gilded steel. Torygg thanked her especially gratefully, and expressed his wish for the emperor to know of his gratitude and undying fealty. _Very prudent, little brother_. Ulfric looked positively sick upon hearing Torygg’s words, however, and exited the castle, to the notice of all.

Now, it was deep in the evening. Ellig sat in the meeting chamber of Castle Dour with Torygg, Tullius, Hjördis, Sybille Stentor, and Falk Firebeard. The latter two had been good advisors to their father, and Torygg kept them on as his court mage and steward, respectively.

Tullius only cared about how Torygg was going to rebuild the royal army, and voiced his opinion that Ellig should lead it. _Is he trying to flatter me, or is he sincere?_ Likely both, he decided. The king assured the military governor that Solitude’s forces would be reinforced in a timely fashion, and that the Wolf of the West Plains would lead them. Torygg looked at Ellig with a grin with the mention of his new epitaph, and the older boy rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

Falk went over the boring business. Taxes, fiefs, treasury funds. Torygg had always found that sort of thing fascinating, though Ellig was far less entranced. If a book or scroll did not document battles, martial techniques, or magic, he couldn’t care less for it. _Which is why Torygg will make a better king. He the pen, I the sword._

Sybille urged Torygg to consider a battlemage corps for the army, believing Skyrim should modernize for future conflicts. Her orange eyes glowed with passion, and Ellig wondered how Tullius had never caught on to her true nature. Fifty years of age, and she looked to be half that. Surely he’s heard the rumors of her stalking the prison during the night?

Torygg told the court mage he would consider her proposal, and broke the council. Ellig got up to leave with the others, but his little brother- no, his _king_ , bade him to stay. “I have something I wish to discuss with you, brother.” Torygg’s voice sounded deeper now.

Ellig sat down, and the king continued speaking. “With old Gunrik dead, I’m in need of a new royal housecarl. I was wondering if you would want the position. I know of no better warrior or soldier.”

He repressed the urge to immediately reject the offer, collecting his thoughts to word it in a more grateful tone. “I thank you for the honor, my king. But I don’t believe I will be staying in Solitude.” Torygg’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I’m not abandoning my place as your general,” Ellig reassured him. “I simply desire to travel the country, learn more about what my future holds for me. Should you ever need me, I will be there for you.”

Torygg sighed. “Very well, Ellig. I won’t stop you. Be sure to bring something interesting back, will you?”

“Of course. Some dusty old coins for you, perhaps a few torn up scrolls written by a scholar assigned to counting grain. How Elisif ever found you charming is a greater mystery than the Elder Scrolls themselves.”

His little brother attempted to look offended, but his grin betrayed him. “Perhaps one of those grimy word walls full of gibberish holds the answer to that mystery. Farewell, Ellig. Make sure you visit, because it’s the only way you can collect your military salary.”

“Well, naturally. I would loathe to cause any hiccups in the records for the royal treasury.” The two brothers stood up from their chairs and embraced. “Goodbye Torygg, and take care.”

They withdrew, and Ellig made sure to give a few parting words of warning. “Remember, don’t trust Tullius, the Thalmor, or any stranger who gives gifts freely. Many will desire your favor. Let them earn it through merit only, not through honeyed words or sweet promises.”

Torygg nodded solemnly, and Ellig took his leave. In a few hours, he was riding out the main gates on horseback, possessing only a coin purse, a week of provisions, a bow with a satchel of thirty arrows, some armor, and Gudbrandur.

As he rode down the hill, Ellig realized that the importance of the battle paled in comparison to the significance of the events to come. Brief visions came to him, visions of what he somehow knew to be from the future. The top of a massive snow-covered mountain. A brooding castle that rested on a fog-covered island. Stone platforms that rested on a black bubbling sea populated with writhing tentacles. Violet eyes that stole his soul. The White-Gold Tower.

And finally, a beautiful valley, with a clean river and grass greener than he had ever seen. The valley ended at a glittering lake into which the river emptied. A bridge made of a whale’s skeleton led to a great hall of imposing stone.

The visions faded then. In their absence, Ellig could feel the presence that he had felt during the battle. It spoke to him now, in a timeless voice.

“You are strong, my son. Stronger than the rest ever dared to hope. But you are not strong enough to face the future I have shown you.” The presence was masculine, but he knew it was not the voice of man, mer, or beast.

“Who are you?” Ellig demanded of the presence. He began to fear it was a Daedra, attempting to trick him.

The presence did not speak, but showed him another vision, this time of the past. A red, four-armed giant stomping through a stone city. _The Imperial City_. The massive monster was confronted by a golden dragon, which slew the giant before turning to stone.

“Impossible,” Ellig breathed out. “I am a mere mortal. I am not even a king, let alone a demigod!”

“You could have been king,” the presence that he now knew to be Akatosh retorted. “But you put it aside, because in your heart, you knew that kingship was beneath you. You knew this was not the high calling that the Greybeards had told you about.”

“Your physical strength, your talents for the arcane, they are my gifts to you. But they pale in comparison to the greatest boon of mine that you have received; your soul. In you is the soul of a dragon, immortal and indomitable. You are Dragonborn.”

Ellig grew dizzy. Him, a Dragonborn, like Talos himself? “Why? Why now?” he asked Akatosh.

“Because you are _ready_. Ready to accept the burden. You struggled with your decision on whether to claim the throne, or defer to your brother. It is the nature of dragons to be ambitious in their pursuit of power, even more so than mortals. But you controlled your own nature. You chose certain peace over possible war, your brother’s love over the love of flatterers who would leech off your kingly power.”

“Why is that so important?” he asked of the deity. “Tiber Septim was Dragonborn, and he conquered all of Tamriel. Is that not ambition, the pursuit of power?”

“It was his calling,” the god answered simply. “A strong will and moral compass is crucial in not just Dragonborn, but all of my children.” Akatosh paused. “The first to receive my favor failed to answer his calling, and instead used his powers for evil.”

“What was his calling?” Ellig inquired. “And why did he fail to answer it?”

“He was overcome by his own nature. All dragons desire knowledge, because it leads to power. Forbidden knowledge is the most powerful of all, and the most dangerous. The First Dragonborn’s downfall was caused by this blind pursuit of enlightenment.”

“As for what his calling was, it was the same as yours. To slay my errant firstborn, Alduin.”

“The World-Eater? I thought he was killed long ago!?”

“Not killed. Cast away, to the future. He will return in a matter of a decade, perhaps a few years more. I cannot interfere further. Return to High Hrothgar, and speak with the grandmaster Paarthurnax. He will help you become the warrior you will need to be in order to defeat Alduin.”

“Yes… father.” Akatosh left Ellig’s mind. He briefly considered returning to the Blue Palace to inform Torygg, but he decided against it. The new king had plenty on his plate already, and he had time according to Akatosh.

“Paarthurnax,” he muttered to himself. Few were allowed entry to High Hrothgar, and Ellig knew of none but the Greybeards themselves that were permitted to scale the summit of the Throat of the World, where the mysterious grandmaster resided.

The name was unlike any he had ever heard. Ellig had asked Arngeir many questions about the man, but the old monk would never give a real answer. _But now,_ Ellig realized, _maybe he will_.

He rode forward, eager to have all of his questions answered. Ellig felt as giddy as a child with a rope of taffy. _Me, a Dragonborn!_ _Did Gudmund know? He must have. I will make him proud_.

Ellig urged his horse on to a gallop. _One day, the bards will sing my name in the same breath as Ysgramor and Talos_. _My deeds will rank with those of Saint Alessia herself_. _From this moment on, my life belongs to Tamriel._


End file.
